


The Catcher of Butterflies

by Dashiell_Mirai



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fluff, Gen, I Don't Really Know How to Tag Help, Older Characters, Philosophy, Politeness, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 13:02:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18591790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dashiell_Mirai/pseuds/Dashiell_Mirai
Summary: Mrs. Ludlow has a nice chat with Death.





	The Catcher of Butterflies

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated to my parents, Terry Pratchett, and Douglas Adams.  
> And, of course, the serial comma.

Death didn't look like Mrs. Ludlow expected him to. Although, if she was being quite honest, she didn't know what she expected.

For all she knew, a figure with a scythe could come riding his pale horse right through her bedroom wall, although that wouldn't have sat well with her, considering the potential repair costs.

Instead, at around half past two on a Wednesday, she heard a knock on her front door. She expected it to be the postman. It wasn't.

She opened the door a crack, and then just stared.

“Oh,” she said simply, after a moment.

Death gave her a sad smile.

“Hallo, Mrs. Ludlow. May I come in?”

“Don't see how I can stop you,” she laughed nervously.

His footsteps made no sound on the hardwood floor. He looked around the foyer, like any other slightly apprehensive houseguest.

“I don't suppose you'd like to use the umbrella stand for your scythe?”

Death held out both his hands, so she could see that they were empty.

“I've got no scythe today, Mrs. Ludlow. You didn't seem to think it necessary.”

“I see, I see. But does it matter what I think is necessary?”

“Oh, absolutely!” he said, with what could be considered enthusiasm, if you looked at it sideways. “I appear how you want me to. Doesn't seem like you're too fond of the, er, traditional skeleton bits, as it were.”

Mrs. Ludlow looked Death up and down for a good few seconds. She didn't know about _that_. She'd never seen him in her life.

He took the form of a young man, thin and fair, in a black costume that seemed rather hard to pin down. Light didn't reflect off of it, and, when she wasn't looking at it directly, it streamed like ink in water.

“What's your name?” she said finally.

“Haven't got one,” said Death matter-of-factly.

This didn't faze her.

“Well, what do people call you?”

“Everything. Everything under the sun. Mostly variations on ‘Death’, and occasionally things like ‘You Horrible, Thieving Bastard’, but nothing consistent.”

“Well, that just won't do,” said Mrs. Ludlow firmly. “I've got to call you something. What's something you've been called that you’ve liked?”

He thought about this for a moment.

“I think… I think, ‘The Catcher of Butterflies’. Yes. I liked that man. He let me carry a butterfly net instead of a scythe. It was much less cumbersome, you know. Got caught in doorways much less.”

She straightened her dress.

“Well, Catcher of Butterflies, would you like some tea?”

He smiled politely.

“That's very kind of you, but I don't think it's strictly necessary.”

“I insist.”

It it said that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but much less frequently that it also hath no persistence like a little old lady offering you something. And who was the Catcher to argue?

At her insistence, he was seated at the kitchen table, with her bustling around the small space, caught up in all those little rituals of tea-making.

“So is it a nice line of work, the death business? Weekends off, paid leave, all that?”

“Not really,” said the Catcher, conversationally. “In fact, I've got to be everywhere at once.”

Mrs. Ludlow looked up from the kettle at him.

“What, everywhere?”

He nodded.

“Even now?”

Another nod.

“But you're _here_!”

“I am. And I'm also everywhere else.”

“Everywhere,” she repeated incredulously.

“Yes. You see, I'm _Death_. I'm in every dangerous quarry, in every high-up construction site, in the heart of every atom, even in your sister's house in Lincolnshire.”

He saw the stricken look on her face, and immediately corrected himself.

“Please, Mrs. Ludlow, I didn't mean that! I meant the ants, in her basement. She's put down poison, you see, so I've been quite busy there.”

He peered at her sheepishly, waiting for a reaction. She let out a breath she'd been holding in.

“You really scared me for a moment, there.”

“I know. I know. I'm sorry.”

“I suppose you could say you scared me to death, ha ha.”

The "ha ha" was pronounced phonetically, the thoroughly universal indicator of awkwardness. The Catcher laughed lightly but genuinely, in that specialised way exclusive to people reacting to awful puns.

He perked up, alerted by a small clink to the presence of tea.

“Oh, is it done already? I didn't hear the kettle.”

Mrs. Ludlow set her cup and saucer down across the table from his, and put the rest of the tea set, along with a plate of biscuits between the two.

“It's one of those new ones. Doesn't make a sound. It's not right, I tell you, but our Elsie brought it for my birthday…” She trailed off.

The Catcher stirred a measuredly reasonable amount of sugar into his tea. He proceeded to take a sip.

“Is this Darjeeling?”

“That's right.”

He reached over to the biscuits.

“Er, may I?”

The sheer degree of his politeness seemed to catch her briefly off guard.

“What? Oh, of course.”

The Catcher of Butterflies nibbled casually on a coconut macaroon, staring out the window. Mrs. Ludlow watched him somewhat intently.

“Pardon my asking, but… how can you eat?”

He paused mid-chew.

“Well, with enjoyment, in this case. These are good, did you make them yourself?”

“Yes, I did, thank you,” she demurred. “But I meant, well, aren't you a ghost, or, er, something of the sort?”

He took a sip of his tea.

“I'm as real as you want me to be, Mrs. Ludlow.”

The atmosphere was a calm one as they both finished their tea, more or less.

Mrs. Ludlow set down her cup.

“Well. I can only imagine where we go from here.”

The Catcher studied the pattern on his saucer with the fixity of a dog staring at table scraps, although with markedly less enthusiasm.

“Ah. Yes. There is that.” He smiled grimly. “I don't exactly pay social calls, you know.”

“Yes.”

She drummed a finger on the table absently.

“Er, Catcher of Butterflies, could you do something for me?”

“Depends. I can't do as much as you think I can.”

“Yes, but do you know how to do a French braid?”

He contemplated this for a moment.

“Er. Probably?”

 

* * *

 

A few moments later, they found out.

Mrs. Ludlow was sitting on the edge of her bed, dangling her feet back and forth like a child. The Catcher’s thin fingers darted through her silvered hair, ordering it methodically into neat plaits.

“You know, my mother used to do my hair like this.”

“Did she? That's lovely.” He used the word "lovely" in a much different way than the sort of lukewarm or simpering praise people would use it as. The Catcher used it the way it appeared in the dictionary.

Mrs. Ludlow nodded, insofar as one could nod while getting their hair braided.

“Mm-hm. Every Sunday. She insisted I wear these tulle dresses, too, I…”

She trailed off, hand over her laughing mouth.

“I couldn't _stand_ the sight of tulle, for years! Still can't, now that I think about it.”

The Catcher smiled.

“But you liked the hair?”

“Oh yes. She used to let me wear her perfume, too, if I was good. It was Chanel,” she said distantly.

The edges of her eyes crinkled slowly, to accompany her fond smile.

“I've finished, Mrs. Ludlow,” said the Catcher, softly. “Shall I use a hair clip?”

“Yes, thank you. There's a few on the dresser.”

She pointed to the leftmost one, which, when closed, looked like the outstretched wings of a butterfly, rendered in gold. The Catcher turned it over in his hands.

“It's beautiful,” he murmured.

He secured the braid with it, then stepped back. She patted the bed beside her, motioning for him to sit down, which he did.

They sat in silence for a moment.

“You're a very nice young man,” said Mrs. Ludlow quietly.

“That's very kind of you.”

“You don't often see Death being polite. Plenty of people just… cark it. This is all very ceremonious.”

The Catcher nodded, looking down.

“My husband died in his car. That wasn't very polite at all.”

“Yes, I was there. Regretfully, of course.”

“I'm sure.”

They spent another few moments in the quiet of the darkened room. Quite suddenly, at least for him, Mrs. Ludlow picked up and held the Catcher's hand. It felt very cold, although she really shouldn't have been surprised.

He looked at her, as if for an explanation.

She looked back at him dolefully.

“I don't suppose you know what happens next?”

He shook his head.

“I'm sorry. I wish I knew. I'm just Death. What happens next isn't up to me.

“It's alright. I wish I knew too."


End file.
